A Controlled Burn - the Story of the 72nd Hunger Games
by XRhodes
Summary: Jasper is afraid of suffocating in the smog of District 8. With his 19th birthday coming up, ushering in his entrance into the workforce, he's even more afraid of his future in his district. Reaped into the 72nd Annual Hunger Games, Jasper has to fight for his future - or whatever little is left of it.
1. Prologue

Prologue

My father went to bed hours ago but his voice still echoed through my mind.

"They say there's a million people in that city and not a single soul," he said, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other pointing to the television.

While he paused to take a sip of his drink, my eyes were transfixed on the opulence of the Capitol. Sweeping shots of the marble streets were populated with colorful crowds of citizens. Close ups of people eating towering desserts, perusing sunlit shops, and strolling down wide avenues under the shade of glimmering metal trees. It was late there too, the sun had set hours ago but the light of the city shined like a diamond in a cradle of rocky mountains.

When he put his glass down he chuckled. "I've been there, walked down those streets, smelt that same sweet air spewing out of vents in the sidewalks. I thought it was heaven, I really did. But it ain't. It ain't real."

"Then what is it then?" I asked.

"A facade, it's all a show." The colors from the screen reflected into his glass and lit up the room. "One day, everyone's gonna figure that out. And for damn sure do not want to be here when the shit hits the fan."

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A/N: I will try to keep Author's Notes to a minimum. This prologue is just a snippet of what to come. I plan on uploading chapters as they are finished so by all means feel free to follow this story. -XR


	2. Chapter 1 - The Odds

1

"I think she likes you Jasp," Nik said, snapping me back into reality. "Don't look behind you because she's totally staring you down."

I kept my head down on a sketch I was working on. "Staring me down like she's gonna kill me or staring me down with hearts in her eyes."

I looked up into Nik's dark brown eyes just as his mouth was open like it always was when he was about to speak. He was looking over me, across the courtyard. The shadow of the Justice Building loomed across the dirt courtyard while people milled about between shifts, passing like ghosts though the shop stands. It was bright, which was uncommon in District 8. The smoke stacks from the textile mills and dye plants usually suffocated anyone outside in smoke and ash.

"Hard to tell, but I swear she likes you. She's been eyeing you since you were like 10!"

Roux Burton, the mayor's daughter. People stood up taller around her and her father in public, but in school she was like the rest of us. She sat quite unobtrusively at lunch with her small group of friends. We'd always catch each other's eyes however. I knew who she was and I'm sure she had met my father at the Justice Building in the square. I saw her milling about there when my parents were assigned a new house after my father's promotion.

"Sneaky that one," Nik said. "How long'd you think she'd last in the arena?"

My stomach twisted into a knot. The reaping was the next morning. "Don't joke about that," I said flatly.

Nik sat back down, "Don't get your boxers in a bunch, Jasp. We're just talking hypotheticals here."

"I just have a bad feeling about this year-"

"You have a bad feeling about every reaping, every year," Nik said. "Listen, we should have no reason to be scared - my name's only in there 7 times and your father's a bootlicker."

"He's not a bootlicker," I gripped my pencil until I could see the whites in my knuckles.

"What I'm tryna say is that he's gotta be protecting you somehow-"

"That's a sack of crap and you know it - my name's in there just as much as anyone else's."

Nik rolled his eyes, "I don't wanna fight with you - it was a joke Jasp."

It was a joke but Nik brought it up every year. My father worked with the mayor as a liaison between the district and the Capitol. My father insisted his job was just a title but titles still have associations.

"Either way, if I was in the Hunger Games - I'd win," he said with a smile across his face. "I've watched every game, every highlight, every interview." Every every that Nik boasted gained a syllable.

"Yeah?" I said, packing my sketchbook between two composition notebooks. I slid the books into a faded green tote bag.

"Absolutely."

My father wasn't home so Nik sat in his overstuffed armchair in the den. The television was already playing highlight reels from the previous Games.

"I woulda been screwed if the arena flooded like that," Nik shouted at the screen but I was in the other room getting changed.

"I thought you said you could win the Hunger Games?" I nagged before unbuttoning my mustard yellow button down. The shirt fell to the floor atop a pile of equally worn clothing. I slipped out of my trousers, too big for me but perfect for my brother. I pulled a pair of gray pants out of the drawer and slipped a blue shirt on over top.

"I mean - I couldn't win _those_ Hunger Games," he vollied back.

Before I rejoined Nik in the den I caught a look at myself in a mirror. I needed a shower before the reaping. My black hair was shiny from sitting in the sun for so long, I glanced down at my shirt to see two premature sweat stains.

I joined Nik in the den on a different chair. The screen was quartered with footage of a different tribute succumbing to the flood waters. The Gamemakers would promise that the cameras in the arenas were always hidden out of sight but I always felt like every tribute managed to look into the lense just as the water swept them away.

"I hope this year they don't kill em off in one go again." Nik said. "I liked that the Games lasted so long, I just feel like the flood was a cop out."

"Yeah," I agreed emptily. Even though I didn't want to look my eyes seemingly drawn to the screen.

"Flooding's just not a fair way to end the Game, y'know? Like _of course_ District 4 would win that."

I shrugged, "Maybe the Games just aren't fair. Maybe they pick the winner from the start, maybe they have some storyline they want to play out."

"Pff, don't be stupid. You've seen em as much as I have - the blindsides, the literal backstabs, no one could plan that."

"I guess so…"

"Anyway, where's your brother?"

"Fine, he's at the Justice Building shadowing a Peacekeeper General."

"He's still wants to be a Peacekeeper?" Nik raised an eyebrow. I could see the word _bootlicker_ forming on the tip of his tongue.

"Better than working in the factories," I said before he could finish his sentence. Nik melted back into the chair, the fires in his eyes extinguished as they focused back on the screen.

"I mean, not that that's a bad thing, my mom works in the factories."

"Yeah - as a designer Jasper."

"Well my sister, she's a-"

"A dressmaker, who makes your mother's dresses." He crossed his arms and pouted like a child.

"I'm sorry I didn't-"

"Can we just watch the Games please?" Jasper said, deflated.

The factories weren't a death sentence, but they were a life sentence. Which, looking back, might have been worse to a 18 year old. When I saw the Games reflect against his pupils I could see him working out every move, methodically memorizing every strategy. I could only imagine what he was actually thinking.

The work whistle blew everyday at 6pm. In the streets you could hear the sigh of relief to return home to rest before another day of work. 8 hours sleeping, 10 hours at work, that left 6 hours to decompress before the stress of another work day.

Nik was welcome for dinner with my family but always went home instead. I'd never been to his house, even though it was apparently only a couple of blocks from mine. His parents both worked in the factories he said. My mom didn't know his mom which meant she worked on the looms instead of in the design labs. His father was a supervisor for the floors, making sure the machinery was running and to minimize limbs lost in the process. A lotta people in 8 had missing fingers, arms, feet, legs, some were even balded from the looms catching their hair.

The factories scared me. We'd take tours of them every year in school; get to see the jobs we'd be working for the rest of our lives. Nothing like being 18, full of fluffy dreams, and brought to a gray factory where you'll work until you die. I think that's why my brother was training to be a peacekeeper. Not that their lives of patrolling district streets and breaking up drunken fights was glamourous, but it at least got you out of 8 and out of the factories.

When I was to leave school and join the workforce I hoped to work alongside my father in the Justice Building. He had been a Capitol Liaison since my sister was 11, when her name first appeared in the Reaping Bowl. He provides enough so that I don't have to take out of the tesserae to provide grain and oil rations for the family. Even though he thought the mayor's job was pointless, given the Capitol's firm hand over the politics of the districts, I always suspected he wanted it.

Dinner that night was nothing new: seasoned potato stew with bread she bought from the baker near her studio. We didn't talk about the Reaping and for the rest of the night the television remained off. My parents didn't like exposing us to the Games more than I was mandated to by the Capitol. From what I understood, everyone's family had a similar practice. For however many weeks the Games were on, the districts were required to watch the constant live-stream. It played in the factories, on large screens outside the Justice Building, and in the shops. However, as much as people in the districts hated the Games, they too were still captivated by the sacrifice - many crowding around the big screens at the end of the workday to catch a highlight wheel. I'd say more betting on tributes happened in the districts, especially the poorer ones, than in the Capitol.

My first hour of sleep was restless. Under a thin sheet, I still felt suffocated in my stuffy bedroom at the back of the house. I could hear people walking in the streets, drinking, getting ready for the Games to start up again. I wondered if I would have the same relief as they did once my time in the Reaping Bowl was over. Would I look forward to an annual sacrifice to appease the Capitol? As much as I promised myself in bed that night that I wouldn't, a pit in my stomach told me otherwise. You're not the same person as you get older.

Around the third hour of restlessness I heard the creaking of floorboards in the other room. Bored out of my mind, I rolled out of bed, slipped a loose pair of shorts around my waist, and shuffled my feet across the floor.

When I opened my bedroom door I saw my father, sitting in his armchair with his eyes on the television.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asked before I could close my door.

I nodded.

"It's been thirty years and I still can't sleep the night before the Reaping."

I sat down on the couch next to him. On the screen, a play-by-play of last year's finale.

"I don't know how these kids do it anymore. Back when I was eligible the Games didn't have all these cameras, mutated abominations, and Career packs. It's more dangerous every year," he said, his eyes still glued to the screen. "You ever seen the first Hunger Games?"

I shook my head, the first Games were tame compared to more recent iterations.

"None of the tributes died for two weeks!" he exclaimed. "The first one to go was a 12 year old from 11 who died of dehydration. It went on for months before the Capitol insisted it ended - people were losing interest, production was down - and then they took the food away. Once the food was gone, they started hunting each other for supplies. 16 died of starvation, 4 more to dehydration when the Gamemakers plugged up all of the water in the arena. There were some small skirmishes over food but overall no tribute died at the hand of another. That's what they want us to think the name comes from."

"Then what's the name really mean?" I asked. I have to admit I was always curious about it.

"The Games are to starve us out. The Capitol's intention was to punish us, break our spirit, breed fear into our families, make us afraid of them, keep us in line. By all means, what more could a sacrifice of 24 children make clear?" He said and quickly shut off the television. "You should get some rest, even if it's spent tossing and turning in bed - some sleep is better than nothing at all. You're not scared are you?"

Not scared, I at least didn't feel scared. Nervous is all. My face must've said otherwise.

"There's no reason to be scared of something that will happen regardless of whether you'd like it to or not. Besides Jasper, believe me when I say this: the odds will always be in your favor."


	3. Chapter 2 - The Reaping

It was humid the day of the Reaping. Throughout the night I sweat through my pajamas and stripped down to a pair of loose boxer shorts. Light from my outside was filtered through the condensation accumulating on my window. The banging of pots and pans against the wood floor of the kitchen startled me - Thimb was home.

I pulled over a loose fitting t-shirt and slipped on a pair of drawstring shorts. The floorboards groaned under my weight as a tiptoed to my door.

"What're you doing home?" I asked from the doorway.

Thimb glanced over his shoulder, his hair was shorter than when he left, the clothes on his body were tighter around the shoulders and his neck. He pressed his finger to his lip and pointed to our parents' bedroom.

I shuffled over to the stove, the pilot light clicked before catching into a flame. "Training's postponed for the Hunger Games," he whispered. "Keep quiet, I don't want to wake mother and father."

I was surprised, even my father, or the mayor for that matter, had to work during the Games. What made the Peacekeeper's eligible? But I didn't let it bother me I just smiled and wrapped my arms around the trunk of his body.

"You look different," I noted. "Your head looks bigger - didn't know that was possible."

Thimb lightly punched my shoulder. "I missed you, little brother," he said.

I slipped behind him and hop on the counter. He lays a slab of bacon across a hot skillet. It sizzles and pops with the heat, releasing a plethora of smells and tingling sensations that never filled our modest home.

"Where'd you get that? Must've cost you…"

He smirked, "The butcher's son owed me a favor. On the house."

"I don't believe you."

The door to my parents' room creaked open.

"Ah, I don't know whether to be more surprised by the man cooking bacon in my kitchen, or the boy sitting on my counter."

I slipped off of the counter and landed flatly on my feet.

"Son," he wrapped his arm around Thimb's shoulders, "didn't know you'd be joining us for the Reaping."

"Wouldn't miss Jasp's last one," he said.

I had practically forgotten about the Reaping. It was scheduled for the afternoon, in a timeslot reserved for District 8's ceremony. The Reapings were always shown in succession; starting with District 1 just at the crack of dawn and concluding with District 12 a little before dusk.

My mother joined us a little later. She plopped down on the couch next to my father and waited for Thimb to finish cooking. "How are we all feeling today?" she sang after some time. "Jasper, I'm making your favorite tonight: barley-bean soup and fresh bread I'll buy, some more, after the Reaping."

"Too hot for soup," my father grumbled. "We had soup last night."

My mother shook her head. "l'll make some just for you after the reaping," she whispered to me.

It was always customary to eat bread the day of the Reaping. It was hard to come by in the high districts, making it a luxury in 9, 10, 11, and 12, but 8 made the cutoff for the middle-class districts. We were hard working, throwing ourselves into our work of clothing the nation. While most of the Capitol wore clothing made by Capitol designers or bejeweled robes sewn in District 1, the denizens of the Districts only wore District 8 fabric.

I pulled a small loaf of bread apart in my hands and watched the steam rise from the gooey center. My brother watched from the kitchen while my mother and father did the same.

"I would have gotten another loaf if you told us about you coming home," my mother said, handing half of her loaf to Thimb.

He waved it away, "Don't worry about me - I'm not that hungry."

We exchanged a half with each other - a small token of unity before the day.

"May the odds be ever in your favor today Jasper," my father said before taking a bite.

I bowed my head. "May the odds be ever in our favor," I replied.

We walked together, as a family, to the district square. My parents and brother broke away before I joined a line to sign in. My mother kissed me on the cheek and my father gave me a pat on the back, Thimb waved goodbye before being swept up with the rest of the adults.

The line moved steadily until I was at the gate.

"Hand," a Peacekeeper in white armor and a grumbling voice commanded.

I reached out and he grabbed my hand, prodding my index finger and taking a blood sample. The whole process was clean, quick, no pain other than the pulse in my finger.

A series of signs led me to the corale of 18 year olds, all melting under the blaring sun. By afternoon the sun had burned away all of the humidity of the morning, leaving us privy to violent rays of the day. After about 15 minutes of standing and melting like a candle, Nik weaseled his way over to me.

"Has your finger stopped bleeding yet?" he asked.

A circle of dried blood sat atop my finger tip, "Yup, give it time."

Nik stuck his finger in his mouth like a baby, persistantly sucking the wound. "Sleep well last night?" he said quickly.

"Nope," I said shortly. The nerves started to build up again. I could feel my hands tremble as if a small electric current was buzzing through my body. My mouth was drying up and every now and again I'd shock myself into remembering my current situation. For something that happens every year the Reaping got more and more intimidating as I got older.

While Nik blabbered on about who his picks were to win from the earlier Reapings, I stared down the large and imposing Justice Building, adorned in light blue and white Capitol banners and crests. Two, huge, television screens played footage of the crowd, panning occasionally to the distinguished guests on stage: Woof and Cecelia, two of five past victors. Woof was the only male victor from 8 and Cecelia was the last victor from our district. There hadn't been a victor from District 8 in more than a decade, my father said this was punishment for low production due to what he called "worker struggles." I didn't believe him, I didn't think the Games were rigged.

Just as the mayor took the stage, Nik wished me luck and I did the same. He pushed his way back into his pen a couple rows behind me.

"Good afternoon District 8," the voice of the mayor was drowned out by the murmurs of the crowd. "And Happy Hunger Games to the nation." He wasn't much of a mayor, wild graying hair sticking out of a balding head. He was significantly older than his wife, who sat next to his assigned seat on the stage. Somewhere in the crowd, his daughter stood in the 17 year old pen along with Nik. I wondered if she was as nervous as I was.

"Today marks the start of the 72nd annual Hunger Games. I am pleased to stand in front of you all today as we celebrate the glory, honor, and mercy of the Capitol." Someone in the crowd started booing yet the Mayor continued, "We have had such an excellent year in District 8…"

I could never make it through the Mayor's boring speeches. He'd raffle off facts and figures to make the district look good. The Mayor's speech was good for one thing and that was giving everyone some breathing room between signing in and the actual Reaping. My heart wasn't thumping as hard as earlier and it didn't feel like there was a train laying across my chest.

"Lastly, I want to again wish you all a happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," his voice echoed through the soulless square. No applause, just occasional jeers that were swiftly suppressed by the Peacekeepers. You can't make force a clap, but you can force submission.

"I would like to welcome," he paused to adjust his glasses. "Erm, I-uh, want to welcome Assa Taztzal to the stage as District 8's own escort to Games!" Yikes, he said it so confidently the whole crowd was embarrassed.

Azo Tazzel, stormed the stage, a long fluffy cape trailing behind him. He snatched the microphone from the Mayor and announced, "Thank you Mayor Burton for that," a pause for composure, "humbling introduction." When he talked his head bobbed around like it was floating, sparkles in his skin flashed the camera while his perfectly pure white hair barely moved as he spoke.

"I am Azo Tazzel, and I am honored to be here in District 8 for my," he let out a quick sigh, "eighth year as escort for District 8…" It had been a long eight years for Azo. In the 65th Hunger Games, the tribute for District 8 had gotten to the final three, eventually succumbing to heat exhaustion just days before Finnick Odair from District 2 would be crowned as victor. The success of our tribute allowed Azo's predecessor to move up and escort tributes from District 5. Not much better than our district, but more trees and breathable air. Azo was promoted from District 10 to work with our tributes in their place.

Azo went into his own speal about the importance of the Games, his included a video. The glare from the sun made the visibility of the screens harder to see throughout the ceremony but the sound was overwhelming. The video ended with the horns of the anthem, fade to black, and a live feed of Azo at the microphone.

"It is now time we select our female and male tributes for the 72nd annual Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor…" he walked over to the female bowl and stuck his hand down to the bottom. The crowd fell silent while we watched his hand swirl around the glass bowl. Finally, he plucked a piece of paper from the bowl and walked to center stage.

"Our female tribute is," the camera focused on his hands, each nail was long and sharp, adorned with a dozen small shimmering stones, "Rouxlette Burton?"

A sigh from the crowd of girls while the adults in the crowd gasped. We all looked around. While we were all focused on her, the Mayor fell out of his seat.

"Oh my, will someone please get Mayor Burton some water?" Azo tried to contain the situation. "Where is this Rouxlette? Rouxlette Burton?"

I think Azo realized a little too late that Rouxlette Burton was Roux Burton, the mayor's daughter. She emerged, fists clenched, her dirty blonde hair covering her tear-filled eyes.

"No!" her mother shouted. "She can't! You couldn't have picked her!" Her mother was now on her feet, each step trembling toward Azo, "She shouldn't have been picked! We-" and the microphone was cut off. Mrs. Burton continued to shout but was inaudible, eventually being escorted off the stage.

When the stage was reset, the mayor and his wife gone along with their chairs, Roux was let back on stage. "Come along dear," Azo rushed, "we're on a tight schedule!"

He led her to centerstage and held the mic in her face. The feedback was like a shockwave through the square. "Ladies and Gentlemen, your female tribute from District 8: Rouxlette Burton!" No applause, just the sweeping sound of silence.

"Rrrrright then," Azo said, gesturing for Roux to step back behind the bowl. "Now, for the boys."

Another wave of silence rolled over the crowd. The sound of Roux's contained crying echoed across the square. I glanced behind me to Nik, who flashed a smile to me just before Azo plucked a name out of the bowl.

He heals of his shoes clicked along the stage back to the microphone. I took a deep breath while he unfolded the slip of paper in hand. Azo cleared his throat before announcing at the top of his voice:

"Jasper Levon!"

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 **A/N: My apologies for the radio silence between chapters. Recent events commanded my attention and I was unable to produce a chapter I felt was sufficient to share. I am hoping to post more frequently in the coming weeks. Please consider following this story or reviewing - XR**


	4. Chapter 3 - The Room With No Windows

**Author's Note: Thank you for your continued support for this project. Please consider following for updates as they will be released more frequently than past chapters. Thank you again for the support, I hope you'll consider leaving a review so I may better my writing skills. -XJR**

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3

The humidity clinging to my skin froze. My hands and face were flushed, a tear struck like lightning from my eye. When I looked up at the screen, the camera was pointed directly at me.

"Step up young man, the world is watching!" Azo declared.

I could hear my heartbeat pound like a drum in my ears. When I stepped forward, the rest of the 18 year old boys stepped back. Their faces were all the same - tense yet relieved that I was chosen over them.

From the aisle, I glanced over my shoulder to see my family being whisked away by a small detachment of Peacekeepers, my mother sobbing, my father red in the face, Thimb was nowhere to be found. I kept walking, slowly at first, then longer and longer strides. I felt sick, like my stomach had been suddenly filled with concrete and I was seconds away from barfing it up.

Azo waved me up the stairs yet offered no hand to steady myself when I stumbled on the way up. He led me to the center stage, everyone stared at me, all of Panem had their eyes on me.

That's when it happened, the seemling solid mix of breakfast meats and bread came spewing out of my mouth like a broken dam. I vomited, not just on myself, but on the stage, splashing the all-white outfits of the Peacekeepers below in bile. I could feel the eyes of Panem roll simultaneously while I stood on stage covered in my own sick. The odds were surely not in my favor.

Before I knew it Azo rushes us into the Justice Building and the ceremony is over. The scent of my vomit on my button down shirt travels with me.

"Can I get a new shirt for him please!?" Azo hollars to a nonexistent stylist team behind him. He sighs, "Right, just one second kid."

I'm locked behind a door in a small room designated as my holding pen. It's there that the reality of the situation sets in: I've been reaped for the Hunger Games, I'm going to die.

I didn't think I was overreacting. Historically, District 8 never had its fair share of victors. Most victors came from the Career Districts 1, 2, and 4. Their close relationships with the Capitol along with the need for the products (luxury, masonry, and fishing, respectively) made them reliable fan favorites. Most of their tributes would volunteer for the Games and spent their entire lives training for the day they are asked to volunteer. It was hard watching a Career win, I never understood why the Capitol let it happen - it just didn't make for a good show.

Suddenly the door swung open, my parents overwhelmed me in their arms, squeezing all of the air out of my lungs. They stood, closer to hovered, over me - both choking back tears.

I got filled up watching them restrain themselves and for the first minute or so we just cried. I sobbed into my mother's arms, a voice in my head reminding me to hold tight as it would be the last time I would get to hold her.

"Where is Thimb?" I said through a sob, "Wasn't he with you guys?"

"He was, we don't know where he went," my father said, my mother still cried but held my hand. When I saw my father, his face was bright red, he wasn't upset; he was angry.

"You weren't supposed to be Reaped," my father fumed.

"I-I don't believe it either father, I'm-"

His fists were clenched, "No Jasp, your name was never supposed to be in the Reaping bowl."

"I thought you said he was safe-" my mother said between gasps for breath.

My heart fluttered, thinking this may have just been some big misunderstanding, "So what? I'm not actually going?" I said with some hope. My mind immediately conjured images of going home, eating the barley-bean soup my mother promised.

No," my father shook his head, "no!"

Swoosh, BANG! When I looked up, my father's hand had punctured the wall. He cried out in agony. A peacekeeper banged on the door, probably assuming the worst.

My father tore me away from my mother, his hair glistened with sweat, his face red as a hot iron, "Jasper, you listen to me when I tell you this - your name was never supposed to be in that Reaping bowl. Your mother and I - JUST A MINUTE," he said in reaction to the repeated banging on the door. "Your mother and I paid a lot of money, liked a lotta boots to ensure that you, your brother, and your sister, were never in the Reaping."

"Wh-" I tried to speak but only let out a squeak.

"What does this mean?" My mother finished my sentence.

"It means," my father sighed yet the banging got louder. "It either means we wasted a lot of money or that Jasper is being taken as reparations for the poor production performance and worker riots we've had the past years."

"Surely that can't be-" my mother appealed.

"The mayor's daughter and the advisor's son both got Reaped. When was the last time anyone in District government has gotten Reaped?" my father argued.

"Never," I replied. "That's never happened."

I was certain. Never had I seen an outburst by a mayor like I saw that day. I always considered it unlikely that it would happen, given the small sizes of the provincial staffs that ran the administrative tasks of the district.

The peacekeeper kicked down the door and dragged my father out of the room, placing him in handcuffs while he swore at them. They had to pull my mother off of me while she clawed at my vomit-stained shirt.

"I love you Jasper, I-" her words were cut off with the slam of the door behind her. I was left alone in the room with nothing but a ticking clock to fill the void of silence penetrating into my psyche.

I was more than a tribute - I was a political prisoner sentenced to execution for the crimes of my father. My new understanding of my role in the Games changed my outlook. Surviving alone was hard enough, with a target on my back it would be near impossible.

A handful of classmates came to see me in the room. I paid them no mind while they apologized, saying how sorry they were that I were reaped. I wanted to tell them the truth, how my name shouldn't have even been in the reaping bowl. I knew I couldn't in fear of being called crazy, to protect my father and mayor who would more than likely lose their lives for bribery. When they left, Nik was finally allowed into the room.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and sobbed, harder than when my parents were there. He held me tight around my waist, his belly jerked against mine with every yelp he managed to get out.

When the embrace broke, my shirt was covered in tears and vomit. Nik wiped his tears away, swallowed hard and said, "I was gonna apologize for ruining your shirt but it looks like you already did that."

I chuckled and for a second was distracted from the reality laid in front of me.

"How are you?" Nik asked.

"I have to admit, I've been better," I said.

"I can't believe we're here…" he said in awe. "I was shocked-"

"How do you think I feel?"

"I was shocked," he repeated, "that you and Roux got reaped. I mean, given the fact that everyone in the factories is fuming already with the bigger workloads, all the strikes, all of the missed production goals. Reaping the Mayor's daughter it's-"

"It's never happened before, I know."

"No, it's just so obvious they're punishing both of your fathers by taking you two. It's messy, it's not their style."

"So the odds aren't in my favor," I said.

"They were never in your favor," he said plainly. "Everyone in the district could have taken a tessare for every member of the family four times over and it would not have changed the outcome."

For the remainder of our time together Nik went over strategies I could employ in the arena.

"I think your best bet is to just wait everyone out, so when you get to the training center, focus on survival skills."

"Shouldn't I find a weapon?" I asked, recalling how many tributes died in the days following the initial bloodbath due to horrifically modified wild predators.

"Find a knife, it's versatile and bound to be in there somewhere. Everyone uses knives." I hugged Nik before the Peacekeepers dragged him away. "You have to win Jasp, you're my best friend and you have to win." The door slammed behind him and a deadbolt locked me inside. I sat down on the metal floor, clenching my fist, trying to overcome the fire burning in my belly. The Games weren't fair and because of it, I wasn't going to play fair either.


End file.
